


Patters

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Murder Mysteries - Neil Gaiman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a Yuletide Madness short about the fall of Lucifer, as set in the Murder Mysteries canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fleshghost

 

 

In the beginning was the Name, and the Name was good.

He repeats this, in the present tense, as he walks. _The Name is good_. It is a mantra, a devotion, an orison for the morning and evening. And the morning and the evening are not things of the sun, for the angels have yet to scatter the burning novae throughout the void, but the words he uses when he passes into and out of the shadows, away from and toward the light of the City. 

The Name is good. Lucifer whispers this to himself as he steps into the gray areas, the few feet of twilight that pool between the edge of the City and the start of the Other. And the words are warm in his chest and mind and mouth, and that warmth keeps him as the shadows close over his sea-mist skin.

He is a light among them. Dazzling and radiant. For all their clinging tenacity, the shadows can not stick too close to the brilliant essence of him; he is a torch borne into the darkness. Indeed, it is from this that one of his names comes. 

(He has other names. He has the name given him by the Lord, a name full of mystery and power. But that name will be taken from him, later, and only the memory of what he is will be passed down in a human tongue as _light-bearer_ , lucifer, a name shared with common household matches.)

The Name is good. Lucifer repeats this to himself when he emerges from the shadows, when he steps once more into the light, and it is sweet and strong and clear to him, it takes the darkness from his skin as though it had never been there, and Lucifer smiles as he returns to his duties, assured that he is strong enough to perform the will of the Lord. He says the words with reverence and joy, shining with love of the Name.

All is well, in Paradise.

***

After. After Raguel is wakened, after Saraquael has been utterly consumed by fire, until not even ash remains to drift down to a silver, gleaming floor. Lucifer continues to walk in the shadows.

And he does not blaze like a brand thrust into their midst. He does not flare like heat lightning across the night sky. The angel's fire is banked, seething under his skin with vehement intensity, but illuminating nothing of the path he walks.

The shadows caress his skin with brushes a hundred times more seductive than any touch Carasel and Saraquael exchanged.

And Lucifer goes silently. If he mouths the mantra, he says it only to himself, only with the under-one's-breath muttering that speaks of trying to convince one's self.

_The Name is-- must be-- needs to be--_

Tears track down the angel's flawless face and drop like luminous diamonds where he walks. Where they fall, tongues of shadows lap them up before they can scorch holes in the darkness.

***

He is watched.

The shadows watch him, hungry for each visit he makes, hungry for the cracks in his skin that permit them entrance. But he is watched by other eyes, eyes that shine no brighter than any other angel's, but seem to have seen more, eyes that are golden and weary.

The One we shall call Zephkiel observes him. 

He watches, waits, nudges, places things in motion. He listens. He hears when Lucifer's shaky _The Name **must** be... _ turns into a bitterly mouthed _The Name is good_ , when Lucifer creates minor bits of the universe like cynicism and contempt. He sees each step Lucifer takes, each footfall that is no longer illuminated by the angel's own light, and He says nothing.

Perhaps He mourns, for his falling child.

Perhaps He doesn't.

Perhaps He only turns his hand to another, shapes him with a gentle touch, and murmurs to a being not yet conscious, _You are. I create you. You are, now. You are the work of My hands. I am the Name, and I am good._

 


End file.
